Reflecting on my foray into the art world 24 hours ago, a few things have hit me.
I will always be a writer first. How telling is it that after a few hours of practicing, I want to go home and blog about it?
I retract my statement that words are finite and images are abstract. I had it backwards.
Images are concrete, words give us much more freedom. They are both vital forms of art, and powerful in different ways.
Maybe what draws me to try art is that there’s a safety in being a beginner. It feels as if I can just enjoy it, since it’s impossible to attach the same performance standards I do with my writing. However, it’s also frustrating because being a beginner means that I don’t have good control over the tools I’m using yet, so they will need to be replaced faster. I don’t have the basic skills to convey the images in my mind. And I don’t think in images– I think in words and phrases. Also, to learn what I need will require quite an investment. I would need books to study, since I can’t afford any classes. The materials are costly and don’t last long.
Whereas I have most of the knowledge I need to write– and the materials are relatively cheap and last substantially longer.
It can take a lifetime to learn these art skills– and most never do. Let’s face it, any revered artist usually struggles with a lot of harsh self-criticism even when they are making a living off their craft.
Artists are never satisfied. That’s why they keep creating– to outdo themselves, or redeem.
I feel as if I cheated on Writing.
Did I leave it only for a moment to learn where my heart lies? Is art just a fling, or can it compliment my relationship with Writing?
I can’t ever imagine leaving Writing for art.
I will tell you the answer when I know.